SONGS OF MOUNTAIN STREAM

BASILISCUS

I was walking by the river.
They came with their guns
to shoot at the wild boars.
They missed the mark. I died.

Oh, the funeral was great, friends!
All the women cried and sang in Latin
songs for my bones. Thank you so much.

And now, I spend the day
inside my grave
over the mountain.
Now, I rest in peace
inside my grave
over the mountain.

In the summer it’s so hot here!
When you came in August
I was surprised to see you
and afraid too.

You were crawling by the churchyard
looking for a place to stay
and to eat your big prey,
not to praise God.

And me, I felt disgusted
inside my grave
over the mountain.
I had enough of the worms
inside my grave
over the mountain.

It’s not so easy to live by your side
during the night, you make strange NOISES.

Oh, my funny Basiliscus
sweet and comic and bloodcurdling
you make me smile
with my dead and frozen heart.

We spend the day
inside my grave
over the mountain.
Now, we rest in peace
inside my grave
over the mountain.

It’s not unpleasant to live by your side.
During the night, you are with me.

SUNDAY MORNING BELLS ARE RINGIN’

Sunday, morning’s all the same.
All the bells are ringing,
all the bells are swinging low.
Please keep quiet,
leave me on my bed.
I can hear the organ pipes that blow.

Someone is telling
tales down in the courtyard,
tales already told before
a thousand times,
in the autumn light.

I keep my secret,
my greatest fear:
I don’t want to grow up.
So please, stop all the clocks!
Sunlight from the mirror frame
climbs on the wall
but always the rain is falling down,
down over my head.
On mountains.

Sunday, there’s nothing to do:
all the bells are ringing low.
Every toll seems to be the last
but it’s a trick:
this eternal sound will play
till mountain falls.

Someone is sweeping
leaves down in the courtyard
leaves already born before
a thousand times.

I keep my secret,
my greatest fear:
I don’t want to grow up.
So please, stop all the clocks!
Sunlight from the mirror frame
climbs on the wall
but always the rain is falling down,
down over my head.
On mountains.

THE BARN OWL

My real name is Barn Owl
but they use to call me Ghost owl
‘cause I walk out in the night.
I walk out in the night.

They sometimes name me Rat owl
or they also cry: “A Demon owl!”
but I go on with my owl affairs
and when they wear their PJs, when they’re sleeping,
I start singing, singing down the road.
Because

I don’t have the great smile
of an actor of the silent era,
I can’t do the tap dance in a vaudeville show,
but I don’t need your stupid mask to tell you
what I think about your shoes, about your hair,
about your bad habit to leave me

I can be as pale as Nosferatu or Bela Lugosi,
I could be the assistant in a Caligari show.
And I don’t need your stupid mask to tell you
what I think about your shoes, about your hair,
about your bad habit to leave me

THE SONG OF MOUNTAIN STREAM

There’s not a voice
(No one who cares, not here not there).
There’s not a breeze
(No breath of air, not here not there).
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel,
oh, leave me by myself don’t let me hear

the sound of brooks
distracts me from my books,
makes me think about your love
the woods and pines we roamed.

Over wide lea
near those paths so dear to me
I remember all the times
you sang this gentle tune:

“Let me show you the sunrise
on these rainy days.
Let me show you the hawk’s flight
on this mountain top” and then
the echoes of enchanting springs
will return to our minds.
We will let them flow.
We will let them run again.

Suddenly my heart leaps up
when I catch sight
of a red deer in the forest,
I run after, it disappears.
The song of mountain-stream unheard by day
now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.

Surprised by joy,
impatient as the wind,
I remember all the times
you sang that gentle tune:

“Let me show you the sunrise
on these rainy days.
Let me show you the hawk’s flight
on this mountain top” and then
the echoes of enchanting springs

will resound again,
will return to play
to fill the air with voices, breaths and waves,
will spread their tales.

It’s the sound that climbs over my spine.

THE RIVER

Run through the water
oh sweet fool to catch my hand,
cry me a river if you loved me till the end.

Every moon is not the same,
tonight it’s red and I’m still

dragged by the river,
past the forest’s shade.
Dragged by the river,
let the willows sing our names.

Dragged by the river,
joy brings only shame.
Dragged by the river
let me sink alone again.

Run through the water
if you want to stroke my hair.
Leave the grey old ghosts
silent in this grave.

Every moon is not the same,
tonight is full and I’m still

pulled by the river
past the forest shade.
Dragged by the river
let the nettles climb my veins

Dragged by the river,
madness cloaks the shame.
Dragged by the river
let me sink alone again.

Pink clouds are floating
slowly over the foxgloves.

Cold is the night,
dance of fire lights.
Cold is the night,
dance of fire lights.

CARL HOLZL

When I’m down
you are my favorite Dj
scratching all my fears.

You’re the one
who knows something ‘bout my life
I’m sure that you won’t speak.

I just move my hands
and your hammers start to beat out, to beat out.
You have got all the keys to open my mind.
To get the right one it’s easy for you.
It’s the only way to penetrate my brain.

When I’m down
you are my favourite killer,
shooting all my demons

I would like
to know something ‘bout your life
but you don’t want to speak.

I just move my hands
and your hammers start to beat out, to beat out.
You have got all the keys to open my mind.
To get the right one it’s easy for you.
It’s the only way to penetrate my brain.

Dear Carl,
your strings shine as my eyes,
but the ivory is darker every day.

CYPRESSA

I know
what I see is not the ocean,
but we don’t care too much.

You see
sea water‘s only a mirage,
but we don’t need to cool down

Near the bouganville
the wind blows.

I know this is not a castle tower,
I don’t mind,
just look around!

You see
on the roof cats and guitars
will mourn till the morning light

And we’ll run on the cypress hill till the dawn.
And we’ll hide away among the ruins like the sun.

We’ll go where the sculptures tell the truth,
we’ll crop citrus walking on the branches.
Needlessly.

I know
this is not the French Riviera.
We prefer juices to champagne.
And I know
I’m not Caroline of Monaco,
but I can sing funny tunes.

And we’ll run on the cypress hill till the dawn.
And we’ll hide away among the ruins like the sun.